by Angel Payne
“Hmmpphh. It’s a new look for her.”
“The dragons will go berserk,” Alex cracks, bringing me an excuse to refocus on him.
“I’m almost afraid to ask what you concocted for us,” I charge.
“Us?” Emma jerks away from her sister and then skirts the car’s hood in her rush over to my side. “We’re getting disguises too? But why?”
“Yours are the most important ones,” Alex interjects. “I’ve been working on them for a while. You have full wardrobes waiting at the safe house.”
Inwardly, I cringe. I’ve avoided calling the place a “safe house” due to every connotation that exists for the term. Cage. Coop. Jail sentence. Hard target. Imminent danger. Inescapable prison.
None of that applies or will apply. I’ve taken a lot of precautions to make damn sure of that for Emmalina.
“It’s the only restriction we’ve got at the place, Velvet.” I reach for her, more ecstatic than I let on as she slides her hand into mine. Her grip is warm and trusting, at least for now. I hope she’ll be all right with this—at least until we know more about what Faline’s latest fuckery is and how close the bitch is to truly discovering where we live. “It shouldn’t be too awful when it’s just us inside the house. This is only for times we need to avoid going stir-crazy.”
She pours a gallon of starch into her stance. “Too late,” she mumbles though finishes with a stiff nod toward Alex. “All right, then. Let’s see it, Trestle. What’d you concoct for—oh, hell. What’s our last name again?”
“Sarsgard,” Reece supplies though adds an adamant glower at Alex. “Who’d better not have any chrome domes in their heritage, man.”
“Huh?” the sisters blurt together.
“Just one of those inside jokes from the trip to Spain,” Alex explicates with a chuckle. “I can probably be bribed to find some pictures on my phone…”
“No.” A brutal glower has never felt so good. “He can’t.”
After indulging half a chuckle more, Alex reaches into a duffel and hands me a smaller bag. “There’s no chrome dome action this time around,” he assures. “Everything is designed to be put on fast, in case you’re farting around the house but need to get into character in less than a minute.” He hands a bag to Emmalina. “Sorry, girl. This means you don’t get to turn into the Mother of the Dragons too.”
“You get something even better.” Lydia’s back to being the life of the party, and my gratitude for her can-do attitude doubles. “We’re going to make you…a redhead!”
As soon as her sister pulls out the double boxes of a shade that can only be called “Jessica Rabbit Red”—which is ironic or tragic or perfect. Emma’s expression explodes so wide, I’m certain her mind has detonated. As anxious as I am to get into whatever getups Alex has conceived, whether it’s Dr. and Mrs. Sarsgard or Mr. and Mrs. Jackrabbit, I realize that for the moment, I’ve got to cool the fuck down on my let’s-get-into-hiding jets. My wife’s just been pulled out of her home, away from her life, and into the land she often calls hell on earth. Making her become someone else entirely is probably like stripping an angel of her wings.
When all I want to do is make sure she’s alive to fly another day.
But that means protecting her heart, as well. And at this moment, that means giving her a few minutes to get used to the concept of her new normal—at least as it stands right now.
But with God as my fucking witness, not forever.
Not. Forever.
“Why don’t we get to the house first?” I suggest. “It’s two p.m. on a Wednesday, and we’re in Newport Beach. If any of our ‘new neighbors’ are even around right now, they’ll barely lift an eyebrow to take notice of our arrival. We can break down the new wardrobes and backgrounds for ‘Steve’ and ‘Sophie’ in more comfortable surroundings.”
At once, Alex nods his concurrence. “Outstanding plan.”
Lydia pumps a thumb. “The sooner the better for Operation Sexy Redhead.”
Next to me, Emma folds her arms and then curls her hands around her shoulders. “Sure. Of course. Just don’t ask me to call any part of this comfortable.”
Chapter Five
Emma
I blink hard at the mirror. Then again.
Am I me?
Or is this just the dream where I become the redhead of all redheads, having landed—appropriately—in the heart of hell?
But everything feels so real. The shiny marble floor beneath my bare feet. The enormous bathroom, complete with a timed spritzer to inject more custom scent, “Eucalyptus-Sage Serenity,” into the air. The salt and sounds of the crashing waves, literally only a hundred yards away.
“Ohmygawd. It’s so effing cute!”
Oh, yeah. And the ecstatic-out-of-her-mind shriek of my big sister. That too.
Just in case I couldn’t hear it the first time—though who on the entire block along Ocean Boulevard didn’t?—’Dia cuts loose with yet another scream. Or maybe that one’s just for fun, because the girl has clearly missed her true calling in life. Screw the semipro tennis circuit; my sister is in her wheelhouse when getting to use grown women as real-life dress-up dolls.
“Do you love it, Baby Girl?” She steps up behind me, seizing me by my shoulders. “Tell me you love it!”
I swallow. Hard. I can’t ruin her moment, no matter how disconnected I’m feeling from all of this. I do my best to model her adventurous spirit, if only for Reece’s sake. He wouldn’t make this drastic call without assessing the ramifications, despite clearly being ready to pull the trigger on the plan whenever he had to. Still, none of this can be easy for him. Giving a cover story to the world about our disappearance, asking for the media’s “respect for our privacy” as we enjoy our “belated honeymoon.” Suddenly bringing “Stephen and Sophie Sarsgard” to life with false IDs, bank accounts, and searchable internet information. And most grueling, having to leave the rest of Team Bolt behind at the ridge, knowing damn well they might be sitting ducks for a house call from Faline at any second.
And here I am, in my marble-lined bathroom, picking up a used hair coloring comb and then singing off-key in an impish soprano voice, emulating the most iconic redheaded mermaid on the planet.
“Ohhhhh!” Leave it to Lydia to clap like I’ve just made the best holy-shit-it’s-really-red reference in the world. “Yes! Perfect! I’m going to blow it out and give you gorgeous princess curls. I’ll tell Alex to look for a teal-green jumper for you too. And themed bows with the flounder and the Jamaican crab!”
My sister. True calling. Enough said.
“Curls, yes,” I state. “But bows, no.”
“Oh, come on. If you hate them, and then you have a daughter—”
“I’m not having a daughter.”
A fresh gasp from her. “Did Neeta see something on the ultrasound?” she all but squeals.
I shake my head. “Neeta didn’t tell me a thing.” I smile and place a hand over my belly. “I just know. So does Reece.”
“Ah. Got it.” She flicks a heavy dose of skepticism while opening her phone and typing in a search for bows. She’s in the same boat as the rest of the world. They don’t get it. The connection among the three of us already, as tight and permanent as real bonds… Perhaps it’s a biological thing because of the electricity in our veins, but it feels like more than that. So much more.
But for now, I give up trying to say anything more. Which is probably a good thing, because it’s time to really shut my mouth lest something snarky spills out. Okay, so they did have to finagle a last-minute switch-up of my alter-ego’s key wardrobe staple due to Bean’s prominent appearance, but jumpers?
Sure, there was a time in my life when I really liked jumpers. I was twelve.
An hour and a half later, donned in one of those hideous things along with a matching pair of thick eyeglasses, I follow ’Dia downstairs. We head for the rec room, where Sawyer, Alex, and Reece are setting up a command post on the billiards table. I’m puzzled by this since this
place seriously must have a decent office tucked somewhere. According to Lydia, there are eight bedrooms and an equal number of bathrooms, a casual and formal dining room, a kitchen with a walk-in freezer, two libraries, a screening room, a couple of sun decks—one with a pool and one with a sauna—as well as a solarium and a night-sky observatory. Honestly, she had me at the “two libraries” part but was on such an excited roll, I didn’t have the heart to stop her.
As hideouts go, it doesn’t exactly suck.
But right now, that’s as close as I’m getting to admitting that hell might be mildly tolerable. For a little while.
When we get to the ground floor, the smoky, briny smells from the beach are more noticeable. I allow myself the hint of a smile, realizing I’ve missed the surging energy of the Pacific as a constant presence in the air. It’s late afternoon, meaning the wind’s starting to kick up as well. It’ll be heralding a sunset painted in all the colors of the season—pumpkin spice, harvest amber, maple brown—and now that I’m in full “Sophie” regalia, I wonder if I can talk my husband into breaking away from his war room for a walk along the sand.
His war room.
Did I really just call it that? And so damn easily?
For the first time in a long time, a distinct chill assaults my spine. I lob solar heat up and down the column, chastising myself for borrowing ’Dia’s melodrama. But is it really that? We’re in a secret safe house, setting up false identities, deciding on defensive strategy against an enemy constantly two moves ahead. And who, oh yeah, is amassing an army of mindless followers on the side, just in case she needs a little backup.
Morose thoughts like this belong to another woman. Not the badass redhead who, even deep in disguise, could make an Amazonian princess cry.
Suburban jumper wonder powers, activate.
Using the credo to sheath myself in imaginary armor, I pull in a deep breath before following Lydia across the living room, through the breakfast nook, around a corner with an interior waterfall and koi pond, and then into the rec room.
Where the sight of my husband has me expelling that air in a series of shocked spurts.
Then a couple of captivated gasps.
Then one hell of a dumbfounded smile.
I never thought I’d live to see this day. My husband, who’s rocked my hormones with every look from a T-shirt and sweats to a bespoke formal suit to leathers and shitkickers, has actually found a new way to make the angels in my libido break into soaring choruses.
Move over, Clark Kent. There’s a new hot geek on the block.
And Lois Lane? Don’t even think about it, wench.
I stand and simply gawk for at least another minute. His big feet are encased in polished Oxfords. His waiting-for-a-flood pants make his long legs look like an oversize wishbone. The argyle sweater vest atop the rumpled French blue button-down is rolled to reveal forearms that provide mental foreplay all on their own. But the best part of it all is above his shoulders, where his mad scientist hair, an obnoxious soul patch, and a pair of thick eighties checkered glasses provide the mismatched pieces de resistance for the look.
Only then, on about my fifteenth drooling appraisal, do I peer past the glasses into his eyes—to realize he’s eyeing me with the same stupefied delight. Holy crap. We’re two peas in a seriously fucked-up pod. But isn’t that what life’s all about? Finding the other pea who fits in your shiny husk?
Not in any other moment, even the one in which he smiled down at me while whispering “I do,” have I been happier to have this man as my fellow pea.
“Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Sarsgard.”
Okay, correction. This moment, as he saunters toward me with Joey Tribbiani charm, is my happy peapod place.
It’s never been a huger joy to giggle at the man’s antics, though I manage to get out between titters, “And good afternoon to you too, Dr. Sarsgard.”
Reece’s glasses slip as he gathers me close for a long, languishing, tongue-filled kiss. While I logically know we have bigger worries than the clamor of my hormones and the throb of my pulse, I table the stress for later. Right now, it’s all about him. The man making the world go away. My existence is about nothing but my breathtaking nerd god. Letting him turn my knees to mush and my senses to mindlessness…
Until my sister’s protesting groan punches the air. “You two want to have a little mercy on the rest of us—like getting a room? There are dozens to pick from. Literally.”
Reece releases me, and I give my sister my impish grin. “Says the girl who doesn’t look like an extra from Dawson’s Creek.” While ’Dia stews over that, I use my hold around Reece’s neck to nudge at the back of his head. “Speaking of rooms, why are you turning this into the forward operating base?”
His expression darkens. “Because Sawyer and Alex decided to have a little fun creating the good doctor’s back story.”
I flare my gaze. “Do I dare even ask?”
“Probably not.” He starts tugging me down an arched hallway I haven’t been in yet—but I skid to stop nearly immediately.
“Oh, crap,” I spew with authentic fear. “Did they make you an entomologist? If you’re about to show me a room full of things with more than four legs…”
He shakes his head. But the chuckle I expect as accompaniment isn’t happening. He actually growls and rolls his eyes before muttering, “It’s worse.”
I bug my eyes. “Huh?”
He continues yanking me down the passage to the pair of double doors at the end. He unfurls another low growl, filled with more exasperation than vexation this time, while twisting the knob. I precede him into the room…
Where I let my jaw drop all the way.
I turn in a full three-sixty, gazing at the strangeness in every corner of the spacious room. Only I’m having trouble calling it a “room,” let alone the office for which it was clearly intended. There are built-in bookshelves and a desk alcove, though there’s not an inch of space for that desk now.
“What…the freak…am I looking at?” My combination of confusion and fascination helps me extend nearly every vowel.
Reece, still standing near the doorway, looks ready to jet any second. He’s jammed his fingertips awkwardly into his back pockets. His pants are too tight to allow anything else. “The Double Jeopardy answer for that would be…what are aliens?”
“Aliens.” I don’t attach a question mark to it but sure as hell want to. Still, as if I’ve really been sucked in by a round of the game show, I can’t stop gawking. I take in everything from the stereotypical bright-green dudes with the oval eyes, to blueberry-colored plastic toys adorned with jeweled faces, to creatures handcrafted in everything from paper clips to modeling clay to red raspberry satin. No, really. Satin. With eyes that look like almond-shaped disco balls.
“And you thought you had it bad with the jumpers?” he finally utters.
I spurt out a laugh. “Well, they haven’t filled me in on Sophie’s hobbies yet, so—”
My words are stolen by the crush of my man’s lips, sweeping down and then in as he traps me in the corner beneath an inflated UFO. I let him in, at once recognizing the weirdness of having a thousand “extraterrestrials” as our voyeurs, but I can’t help myself. His power over me, even in Dr. Alien Nerd form, is the most beautiful thing my senses have ever experienced and my body will ever know. I want him, even here. I crave him, especially now. I open readily for him, sweeping my tongue out to match the greedy assault of his—
Just as the front doorbell rings.
We break apart like a pair of teenagers caught at second base in the rumpus room. The feeling only worsens as Lydia dashes in, her face fixed in a gape. “There’s someone at your door!”
I pin her with a duh glare only a sister could get away with. To Reece, I demand, “What do we do?”
He pushes his glasses back up his nose and reaches into one of his front pockets to produce a pair for me. Though the spectacles are definitely props for a grandma, I still wonder how he fit the
m and all of his lower half—including the important junk—into the skintight legwear.
He opens the glasses and jams them onto my face. “No time like the present to see if these getups are really going to work. Come, Sophie.” He smirks, so irresistibly geeky and gorgeous at the same time. He scoops up my hand and leads the way toward the main entryway.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I hiss as he double-checks my ensemble as well as his. Then he turns and grabs the heavy iron handle of the massive front door, pulling the portal open wide.
I hold my breath, hoping for simply a misdirected delivery guy, but no way am I getting that lucky. Not by any kind of a longshot.
Because the Ocean Boulevard welcome wagon has really and truly arrived. In every horrific way possible.
The couple standing on our porch looks like they jumped off a video monitor from the lobby of a plastic surgeon’s office—not an unlikely scenario, considering there are more altered faces than Starbucks stops in this neighborhood. The man is tall and sturdy, with bright, eager eyes and swoopy dark-blond waves into which a gallon of product has been dumped. The woman is petite, curvy, and rocks a matching serial-killer glint in her gaze, despite her traditional brunette bob and heirloom pearl earrings.
As soon as Reece fully opens the door, the Bradley Cooper look-a-like softly finishes his eight-count.
This isn’t going to be good.
They launch into a version of “Rock Star” that sounds more like a cheerleader chant than a song. I’m not quite sure how to tell them their welcome-the-new-neighbors spiel probably needs to be replaced with a pie and flowers, especially as they punctuate the number with spirited moves that rival any pro cheerleading team on the continent.
I’m almost glad when their coordinated moves nearly take out the porch light, giving Reece a perfect excuse to halt them by holding up both hands. Well, tries to. When he adds some valiant applause to the quest, I readily join him.
Success at last. Sort of.
Because thirty seconds later, we’re still clapping. Annnnnd clapping. Then even more clapping, as the duo accepts our “praise” like Broadway stars basking in three—now four—standing ovations.